Collect from /

Cool clear weahter

of Ceylon.On e▓ither hand stretched treeless flat▓-lands, parched and brown as Sahara, a ▓desert blazed at by an implacable sun and unwate

mmanded; “I

This Weather sucks

●red for months.A few native husbandmen▓, remnant of the workers in abund▓ant season, toiled on in the face of fru▓strated hopes, scratchi

wan●t to t

Clouds All Around

ng with worthles▓s wooden plows the arid soil, th▓at refused to give back the seed in●trusted to it.There is no sadder, more forlo●rn, m

alk to you.?/a>


ore hopeless of human crea●tures than this man of the masses▓ in India.His clothing in childhood co●nsists of a string around his belly and a ch▓arm-box on his left arm.Grown to ma▓n’s estate, he adds to this a narrow s▓trip of cotton, tied to the stri▓ng behind and hanging over it in front.Regular▓ly, each morning, he draws forth a prep●aration of coloring matter and cow-▓dung—for the cow is a sacred animal—an●d daubs on his forehead the sign o●f his caste, but the strip of cotto▓n he renews only when direst necessity demands.▓His home is a wretched mud hut, too low to s●tand in, where he burrows by night and squa▓


ts on his heels by day.With the buoyant Si

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